LOGO : Site title

I have quit my job and become a full-time father.

A few years ago, if I had asked a Magic 8-Ball if I were going to quit my job to become a full-time father, that little black orb of prognostication would most likely have responded with “Very Doubtful” or “My Sources Say No.” You would probably get similar responses from my boss, co-workers, friends and family.

If I were to ask it the same question today, the floating triangle would emerge from the murky depths with “As I See It, Yes” or “It Is Decidedly So.”

As my wife's maternity leave was drawing closer to an end, we had a long talk about what would come next. We had become residents in that unique neighbourhood in Purgatory called “Day Care Waiting List,” but we hadn't been able to secure a spot in even the most questionable facility. You know the one down that dead-end street next to the house with the pile of burning tires in the front yard and a pregnant pit bull sticking her head through the screen door? They've got a two-year waiting list, at least.

When we crunched the budget numbers for daycare, we came to the realization that even if we were to get a spot in a decent facility, that cost alone would more or less devour my paycheque. With that in mind, we began to seriously consider the idea of me quitting my job and becoming a full-time parent. Aside from the fact that we would have to make some severe cost-cutting measures – bye bye name brand anything and hello single-ply toilet paper – it seemed to be a workable solution to our dilemma.

In fact, I've been looking up recipes for boiled newspaper and lawn clipping soup and have even considered starting a career of snooping through people's recycling bins for stray beer and wine bottles. The best thing is that I can easily bring Jack along with me. He loves to play with empty water bottles, so why won't he be delighted with a bunch of Molson Ex cans? Plus, I get to teach him wonderful life lessons about recycling and fiscal responsibility. It's a win-win situation.

The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. I was working a full eight-and-a-half hour day, with a 45-minute commute each way, so the only baby time I got was an hour or so in the morning and two hours in the evening. We shared the whole weekend, but I was feeling a little left out in quality baby time. I also felt that I had come to a point at my job where I needed a serious change. I had been at the same job in the same bookstore for almost nine years and the glass ceiling of advancement was cloudy with my fingerprints. I certainly enjoyed the structure and routine that my job offered, as well as some great industry perks, but the general frustrations associated with my job were taking a serious toll on me. I had had enough of the jerky customers and head office complications and it was the perfect time for a change.

Once we had made the decision for me to quit my job, I had the wonderful experience of telling my parents our plan. They were supportive for the most part, but I could definitely hear an undercurrent of concern in their voices. In fact, that undercurrent sounded like a raging torrent of “What, are you crazy?!” and “You have got to be insane!” and “You will end up in the poor house!” Of course, I'm just projecting my own anxiety into their concern, but it was nice that they were supportive but realistic.

T elling my boss at work wasn't quite as easy. It was probably the single worst possible time to quit and here I was handing in my notice. My manager took it pretty well. He had known for a long time that I was looking around at my employment options and, being a family man himself, he told me that I had to think about the needs of my family first. That didn't stop him from choosing to act as if I were merely taking a sabbatical and that my store key would be waiting for me when, not if, I returned. In fact, he planned on engraving my initials in it and putting up a personalized plaque on my old cash register.

The store owner, on the other hand, did not receive my resignation as graciously. He maintained a passive poker face and while he expressed some support for my watching Jack, I could tell he was hiding either anger or disappointment. It may have even been terror, as it dawned on him that once I was gone, there would be no one left at the store who had a clue how to do what I did.

Once the news was out that I was leaving, it was fun to see the reactions of the people I told. I was surprised at how supportive everyone was. All of the women I told were really amazed and happy about it, and quite a few of the men said that they taken a year or two off to stay home with their children.Our computer tech support representative let out at whooping “Yeah! Alright!” when I told him. He had been working remotely from home for years so he could watch his kids and said that he couldn't imagine working any other way. I plan on keeping his 1-800 number by the phone in case I need some advice down the line.

The only person who was openly derisive was one of our regular delivery men, a really burly manly man who specialized in dangerous driving and dropping almost every box in mud or slush. From the look on his face, you'd think I told him something inconceivable like I was planning on giving up regular food and eating only toenail and Vaseline sandwiches.

Now that my last day at work has come and gone, I can finally get down to the actual responsibility of raising my son full-time. I know it will be an overwhelming experience at times, both physically and emotionally, and I know that I will certainly miss the grown-up world (dirty words! mature subject matter! sarcasm, innuendo and name calling!) but we'll make up for it with lazy trips to the beach, the park and of course, to the beer store, to return all those empties.